


Deep Roots Not Touched

by mothpuppies



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Kirk, M/M, POV Kirk, Post-Star Trek I: The Motion Picture, Star Trek I: The Motion Picture, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Vulcan Mind Melds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothpuppies/pseuds/mothpuppies
Summary: Vignettes detailing Kirk's emotional trials throughout the first four Star Trek motion pictures.





	1. After "The Motion Picture"

**Author's Note:**

> This story assumes that the reader has working knowledge of the events of ST: The Motion Picture, ST: The Wrath of Khan, ST: The Search for Spock, and ST: The Voyage Home. 
> 
> (Thanks to E. for reading my shitty first draft and A. for encouraging me to finally finish this story.)

It had been four days since the culmination of the V’ger incident, and Spock had spent the time secluded in the privacy of his quarters. When he finally did emerge, he found me, as on most quiet nights, sitting on our ship’s observation deck. I don't meditate as Vulcans do, but I imagine it’s similar to how it feels to be on that deck—the stars and meteors float past and I become unstuck in time, a small blip in the expanse of space. It was good to be distracted: thoughts of our recent encounter and the loss of Captain Decker and Lieutenant Ilia weighed heavily on me. I was so intent on trying to remember the star charts for our current position that I didn’t realize Spock had approached until he sat beside me on the bench.

I turned and registered his expression, which seemed to fall somewhere between sour fear and anxiety. _My god,_ I thought, _is Spock agitated_?"

“Jim,” he said, failing to meet my gaze, “there is a matter of some importance which I must discuss with you.”

I shifted, heart turning to an icicle in my chest. “Anything, Spock."

His head remained low, brow furrowed as he began. “When I spoke to you and Dr. McCoy in the sick bay after my successful mind-meld with V’ger, I explained how the machine-life was the embodiment of pure logic, and yet in its soul it remained barren and cold.”

Head cocked, I let my gaze trace the outline of Spock’s profile, which in the dim light was burning a faint, blushlike green.

“Jim, you know well that Vulcans cannot lie, but I—nonetheless, I must admit that I misled you. When I spoke of V’ger then, what I was really trying to say was that I finally understood my own… motivations.” He seemed to be trying not to say the word _heart_.

“Spock, I—” I began, but he silenced me with searing eye-contact. _For someone who lives to cover up his emotions,_ I thought distantly, _he can’t hide what’s behind his eyes. Never was good at it, really._

Spock took a deep breath, still staring at me, and said, “I could not undergo the ritual of Kolinahr because your soul called to me.” The simple fact came out evenly, like he was explaining it more to himself than to me. “When I was on Vulcan, I felt you with me. Your spirit was present in every dream, every meditative trance, every memory of our five-year mission. Master T’Pau saw this in my mind, and refused to complete the Kolinahr ritual. She told me: ‘ _Your answer lies elsewhere_.’”

He looked down and saw my hands, which were curled white-knuckled around the edge of our bench.  As if from down a long hallway, I watched him flex his delicate fingers, then he pulled my hand up to his face, its palm open, his eyelashes fluttering as he studied it. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“I find myself repeatedly called to your side, and can only conclude that this means that you are, to use a metaphor, ‘my answer.’” A small smile broke through the stony tension on his face. “I believe that we are bondmates, Jim.”

My skin flushed with cold heat. In an instant, it all flew back to me: I remembered the nights spent mired in longing and questioning, lying in my bunk and listening through the walls to Spock’s quarters, wondering if he was thinking about anything, about me. I remembered every exchanged glance on the bridge, every game of chess, every quip that raised his eyebrows in good humor, how the five-year mission seemed a honeymoon in my imagination. Mostly I remembered with vivid clarity how _right_ it felt when he walked back onto the _Enterprise_ only a week ago, free from Kolinahr, fighting like a moth to emerge from a cocoon, so goddamn alien and beautiful to me. The rightness was the feeling of home, of companionship and brotherhood, and I knew that his “answer” and my “rightness” were two phrases for the same thing.

The admission came easily. “I’ve loved you for years,” I breathed, and I pressed my palm to his. Our fingers grazed intimately together for the first of many times.

* * *

 

Vulcan marriages are private affairs. Spock and I were wed two months after the V’ger incident, and until then I walked in a near-daze, afraid I’d somehow wake up and shatter the bliss. But it turns out that the universe is sometimes kind, and we were married without a hitch—Vulcan kunat drums beat as we knelt in hot sand and a priest spoke our litany in a harsh tongue. We twined our fingers together as the marriage bond was completed, and my mind was drawn so tightly to Spock’s that we might have been made of the same molecules. Spock’s parents and the bridge crew were there to watch and later to celebrate with wine and dancing.

I won’t say that our first fourteen years of marriage were perfect, but there’s just _something_ about late-life post-wedding bliss that can’t be fathomed when you’re younger. After the V’ger incident, I spent over a decade as an Admiral, commanding nothing more exciting than a PADD to dictate my administrative orders. The long years pencil-pushing and fighting through yards of diplomatic red tape would have soon grown unbearable without Spock to return to at night. He taught at the Academy and usually beat me home by an hour, so he was ready to meet me at our apartment door after the shuttles finished running. If it had been a particularly harrowing day, he would press his fingers to my face and his voice would ring strong through our bond: _Patience, ashayam. Peace and tranquility._ _Kadiith._

We did all the domestic things: cleaning and running errands, cooking and taking vacations, reading together before bed and making love. The years passed slowly, and each anniversary brought a tradition which Spock had surprised me in starting.

I rolled over in bed on the morning of our first anniversary, and when my eyes adjusted to the sunlight slipping through the curtains, I could see a pot filled with bright green shoots sitting on my bedside table. Spock, who had already awoken and was meditating, sensed my confusion through our bond and entered the bedroom to kiss the corner of my mouth. “It will grow to be a sunflower, t’hy’la.”

“Why, Mr. Spock,” I admonished in a teasing tone, “could it be that you’re partaking in the human ritual of giving me… anniversary flowers?”

“It would seem illogical at first glance,” he admitted, “but the sunflower will absorb carbon dioxide and help to freshen the air in our home.”

“You old romantic,” I laughed, and we fell together on the bed.

And for thirteen years after that we had sunflowers and golden sunshine, we had Holodeck vacations with Bones and late-night Italian dinners and mind melds and a goddamn happy life. But the universe is sometimes unkind, and those sunshine days were ripped away forever when my life’s biggest mistake returned to haunt me in the form of Khan Noonien Singh.


	2. After "The Wrath of Khan"

Bones was holed up in the medbay, probably nursing some private wounds of his own, and was, for once, emotionally unavailable to me. Thankfully, Scotty was well-equipped with a large bottle of Klingon brandy and some kind words, and I’d spent the last four hours drinking with him and talking quietly about our favorite memories of my husband.

It was just past 0300 hours on the morning after Spock’s funeral, and I was finally ready—propped up by alcohol and in a haze of tiredness—to seal off his private quarters until the ship could reach Earth again. I stood with my forehead resting against his door, and for a second my mind imposed the image of a hateful glass barrier on top of the room’s normal porthole. I drew a hand up to my aching temples, cursing, but there was no choice: I had to close Spock's room.

The last thing my crew needed was for me to be sentimental. The horrors we faced when we stared down Khan, the near-destruction of our ship and her people—those were the reasons why I needed to stand resolute on the bridge. Yet here, in the face of my husband’s personal quarters, my resolution fell apart like wet tissue paper. We had shared my bedroom since our marriage, yet failed to reassign his room on the Enterprise—it stood as he liked it, a simple shrine to meditation and order, with rows of shelves covered with old Terran books, scientific measuring equipment, and the odd Vulcan artifact. The bed was made, of course, and the desk was bare save for one thing: an antique, hardback book, lying open on its spine.

The door swished shut behind me as I took the book from the table and read that it was _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens. Spock had apparently been reading it on his off-shift; he knew it was my favorite book and was probably planning a discussion for a future date. My mind cast backwards to the memories I held of Spock, so dignified and serene at my shoulder when we would lay in bed at home and read for hours. Oftentimes he’d get so absorbed in his studies that his tea would go cold, and to thank me for reheating it he would press a Vulcan kiss to my fingers as I handed him the mug.

I leafed through the book now, trying to recognize the places where it had touched Spock’s skin, as if he had somehow left psychic traces of himself behind, but of course I could sense nothing. At last I arrived at the last page, a final sentence which I knew well: “ _It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known._ ”

I stared, blinking, hating that the quote now fit my narrative of Spock as a man. His last act—saving me, the crew, and the ship—was the logical sacrifice; still, as the most noble thing he’d ever done, it was _not_ a good thing, it was the absolute worst. I missed him like hell and I couldn’t even tell him. Our broken bond howled like a windstorm in my head, causing the painful heavy feeling behind my temples. I knew that half of my soul was now wandering _somewhere_ , fated to search forever for tranquility that would continually be denied, and that my husband’s soul was the jigsaw puzzle piece that could never be refit.

I reached to replace the book on the desk when a small white envelope slipped out from between the endpages and the cover. It landed on my foot and I saw that it was addressed to _Jim_ , and the howling wind quieted for just a moment as I pulled out the card within. _T’hy’la,_ it read in Spock’s spidery handwriting, _I located this book in an antiques store on Windon Street. It is a second-edition copy, but the gilt edges are exceptionally rare. I am sure you will enjoy it. Happy birthday, Jim. Devotedly yours, Spock._

My legs buckled and I staggered to the bed. Tears wet my cheeks and I sat grasping the card as if it were buoying me up above water. _It’s not fair_ , I thought wildly, _it’s just not fair_.

 _Stupid_ , a second part of me whispered back, _nothing in war is fair._


	3. Before and During "The Search for Spock"

My ship had limped into port and my injured crewmembers had been offloaded to long-term medical facilities. Meanwhile, I was going crosseyed from the days full of paperwork, administrative hearings, and meetings following the Khan incident. The first night I’d returned home after the initial docking, to an apartment left empty without my husband to place his loving hands on my face at the door, it had felt like walking into a freezer. I wasn’t able to sleep because psychic echoes cruelly brought Spock back in eddies and slippery dreams, so I stayed awake and worked instead. I was also worried about Bones’ strange behavior after Spock’s death, but he had disappeared to his apartment uptown without a word and I’d not been able to slip after him for a visit yet. Although outwardly exhausted, internally I was somewhat relieved that my attention was drawn elsewhere because it prevented me from thinking too much about the reason for the windstorm in my head.

Time passed in such a dull, painful blur that I forgot what day it was until my doorbell rang nearly two weeks after our homecoming. I swung open the hatch to find my bridge crew clustered together outside. “Happy birthday, Captain,” Uhura smiled, and with a start I thanked her.

Then we all sat around my coffee table and talked, mostly about the aftermath of our recent mission and how our ship’s refit was going. Scotty poured tall glasses of wine and Sulu handed me an oblong package. Cocking an eyebrow at him, I admonished the unnecessary gift, but he and Chekhov insisted I open it. I removed the wrapping paper, and the firelight caught a glint of gold as a porcelain vase rolled into my palm.

“There is a Japanese art called ‘ _kintsukuroi,_ ’” Sulu intoned, “which refers to repairing a cracked piece of pottery with gold-lacquered resin. The intent is that the pottery will be put back together stronger than it had been before.”

I tried to think of appropriate words. Finally, after weighing the delicate piece in my hand for a moment, I set it upright on the table and looked at them in turn. “Thank you… thank you all,” was what I was able to say. My throat seemed to have closed.

“To absent friends,” Scotty said after a pause, and we all toasted to Spock. As I lifted my glass to my lips, the doorbell rang again.

* * *

 

My friends respectfully filed out after Spock’s father arrived. Now sitting alone in opposite chairs, we stared unevenly at each other. Sarek had confused and insulted me with his accusations—disloyalty? Towards _Spock_? The concept was foreign to me, but my father-in-law insisted that he check.

Sarek placed his fingertips to my temple. My conscious mind receded as he drew my memories forward, like a fisherman expertly hooking the deepest, most painful parts of myself. I knew instinctively that this was the difference between father and son, between bondmate and stranger: Sarek’s mind-meld was probing, hardlined, businesslike, while Spock’s had only ever been gentle. Spock had never been unwelcome in my mind, and had, in fact, felt more like a cool washcloth to a fevered forehead than anything else. Thankfully, Sarek was precise and the meld was over in nearly a minute.

He leaned back in his chair and knit his fingers together. “Forgive me, Kirk,” he said, “as I have erred in my judgment of you. I see now that the circumstances of my son’s death prevented the customary transfer of katra.”

I released a long count-to-ten breath, trying to stop my fingers from shaking, trying to squash the nasty gleam of hope that was building inside like pressure in a boiler. “But if not me, then--?”

Sarek quirked an eyebrow, so much the image of his son in that moment that a fresh wave of pain surged through my head. Of course—the answer was so simple, a child could have seen it.

My wrist seemed to act on its own. It flipped my comm device open, and through numb lips I told Bones to report to my apartment immediately.


	4. After "The Voyage Home"

After our successful water crash landing with two humpbacked whales in tow, the Galactic Federation had decided that my crew was permitted one evening of post-worldsaving rest before our disciplinary hearing.

Now came the moment I had been fearing: Spock hesitated outside of our apartment door. He shivered slightly, but I wasn’t sure whether it was because of his still-damp robes or his anticipation. I stepped in front of him and took his wrist in my hand. He looked at me, slightly dazed, like a baby bird seeing everything for the first time—and I suppose, in many ways, he still was. I pressed my fingertips to his, one digit at a time, and sent my best calming sensations through our newly-refit bond.

Finally, slowly, a smile slid onto his face, and he closed his eyes. Leaned his forehead to mine. “Jim,” he said, “we are home.”

“Yes, Spock,” I said, and led him inside.


	5. After

In the years following our retirement from Starfleet, I found myself drawn more often to the antiques store on Windon Street. Spock, who was amused by my fascination with old hardcopies of Terran texts, encouraged my habit of collection. One afternoon, as I went to sit in my easy chair, I saw that he had left a bookmark in a copy of Hemingway’s _A Farewell to Arms_. I flipped the page open and read to the end of a paragraph which said, “The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

“Hemingway was a wise man,” Spock said from behind me.

“Also a drunkard and a brawler, but he did have his merits,” I chuckled as I turned to watch him. He carried two fresh-cut sunflowers to the _kintsukuroi_ vase and arranged them neatly inside. The flower heads cocked together, almost like they were kissing.

And I thought, not for the last time, that the universe _is_ sometimes kind.


End file.
